Rise
by SarcasticEnigma
Summary: DISCONTINUED AS MY HARD DRIVE CRASHED IN APRIL '18, LOST EVERYTHING! Balancing school, hunting and dodging assassins, and helping the mix-match pack from the public school decipher the mystery of The Benefactor, all while using her magic to do so were all things her Grams definitely wouldn't have approved of. Scott/OC! Rated T for now. R&R!
1. Chapter 1

_**Disclaimer:**_ I don't own _Teen Wolf_ or any of its characters. I only partially own Joanne since she was inspired by a name on The Deadpool, but any other OCs you happen to come across are 100% mine.

 _ **Rise**_

* * *

 _If you love me, don't let go  
If you love me, don't let go  
Hold, hold on, hold onto me  
_' _Cause I'm a little unsteady  
A little unsteady_

"Unsteady" (Erich Lee Gravity Remix) – X Ambassadors

* * *

 **Chapter 1**

"All your homework done?"

The sixteen year old hummed distractedly as she poured herself a cup of hot coffee in her travel mug. Joanne and her grandmother maneuvered around each other in the kitchen like an old practiced dance. It was the same routine every morning. While her Grams finished frying the scrambled eggs and bacon, Joanne set out the plates, cutlery, and fixed their drinks; Grams always drank herbal tea and Joanne would start with juice before switching to coffee to take to class. In-between waffles and whatever food Grams made, there would be light conversation about upcoming events in their lives. Joanne's grandmother would tease her about how she should stop drinking coffee and switch to tea like her. As if that would ever happen. Today was like any other day, except they were both running a little behind schedule.

"Chemistry, Calculus, and Econ are completely finished," Joanne answered, smacking the lid down on her travel mug and grabbing her grandmothers. "I have half my Latin and French done, and the outline for my English paper is done, too."

The older woman stopped making the impromptu breakfast wrap to ask, "And why isn't that paper started, young lady?" There it was, the infamous tone. Joanne glanced at her and saw she even had her hand poised on her hip, brow raised. Grams might have been an older lady, but she could still be an imposing figure – especially with that hot spatula in her hand.

"Because it isn't due for another month, Professor Warren," she teased with an easy grin. Cynthia Warren was a professor of the occult – a private joke that never failed to make both women laugh – at the local university. "Plenty of time." Grams hummed and turned back to the frying.

"And the topic of this paper?" Snapping the lid on her Grams' travel mug, Joanne came to stand beside her.

"The Salem Witch Trials," she answered with a grin. Cynthia instantly grinned and chuckled under her breath. "Exploring religious fanaticism with a focus on trust in religious canon versus evidence and common sense, creating a psychological profile to showcase how fear led to the mass hysteria with a note on ergot poisoning and its effects. Then I'll close with modern day "witch hunts", citing multiple cases with weak or fabricated evidence and even false witnesses that led to the imprisonment and, in some cases, the death of innocent people," Joanne spouted off with brilliant ease. Cynthia turned off the burner and wrapped the breakfast burrito in foil, trading it for her tea. "Satisfied, Professor?"

"Cheeky," she commented with an affectionate smile. "I look forward to reading it."

"You know," Joanne drawled, "you proof reading my papers really is an unfair advantage."

"I just want the best for my baby girl, like any other proud parent," Cynthia retorted, leaning over to kiss her cheek. Joanne grinned and rolled her eyes.

She'd never known her father. He took off when she was a baby, according to Grams. Her mother had been locked up in Eichen House for the last ten years; paranoid schizophrenia. The responsibility of raising her fell to her only other living relative: her grandmother. Grams had always put Joanne first and did what was best for her. Hence her enrollment at Devenford Prep. Given the zoning districts, she should have gone to public school but, after she was delivered into her grandmother's care, Grams changed all that. She had pull with the Headmaster and had donated money to fund a new addition to the library and a few new computers. After that, Joanne's induction to Devenford had been smooth sailing – with the grand exception of her peers.

"Since most of my work is done or on track to be done way before it's due, does that mean I can go to Junior Prom?" she questioned coyly. Cynthia let out a quiet sigh as the pair headed out the front door.

"You know my rules, Joanne." The teen bit back a sigh.

"Yeah, I know." Friends were great, as long as they were human. Dating was fine, as long as they were human. The problem was that, one, she didn't have any friends – acquaintances and teammates, sure, but not friends – and, two, no one wanted to date her. "I don't have a date. Don't worry. Nobody's interested anyway," Joanne assured her with a frown.

Cynthia gave her a look as they walked to their cars. "I'm sure that's not true."

"Except that it is," the teen countered, irritated. Grams have her a look that clearly demanded an explanation. "Grams, please, don't make this into a thing. The dance is months away and I just wanna go and have some fun. Be normal for a change." Cynthia cocked a brow and gave her granddaughter her patented "Look", clearly unappeased by the answer she'd been given. Joanne, frustrated, finally snapped and told her exactly what she wanted to hear. "Nobody wants to be friends with the orphan freak that transferred from the public school, let alone _date_ her, okay? Satisfied?" she sniped smartly.

"Kill that attitude, young lady. Right now," Cynthia chastised, pointing a stern finger at the moody teen. "Now you listen to me. Someday," her Grams said, gently taking Joanne's face in both her hands with a smile, "someone is going to see just how special you are."

"You mean what a freak I am," she retorted with a roll of her eyes, tugging out of Grams' grip.

"Hey! We are _not_ freaks," Cynthia snapped. How many times was she going to have to tell this girl that? "We're witches. We're servants of nature," she reminded the teen. "We maintain the balance. We're powerful and we are _strong_. Don't you ever forget it, you hear me?" Joanne nodded, looking properly scolded. Cynthia looked her granddaughter up and down before making a decision. "Finish your Latin and French first, get a rough draft of that paper to me by this weekend, and I will _consider_ letting you go to Junior Prom."

"Seriously?!" Joanne exclaimed excitedly. Cynthia nodded, laughing as her granddaughter let out a little shriek and hugged her, bouncing up and down.

"Yes, "seriously"," she laughed. "But, since the dance is months away, you have one job to earn that ticket: stay on top of your work and keep that GPA high."

"It will! I will, I will, I promise! You're the best, Grams! The absolute best!"

"This I know, but feel free to keep reminding me," she replied with false modesty and a shrug. Joanne laughed again as her Grams shuffled her off to her car. "Now, off to school with you! I'll see you tonight." Joanne waved goodbye as Cynthia called out, "I love you, baby girl!"

"Love you more!"

* * *

Everyday was the same: she had a wonderful morning with Grams, but then it was seven hours of monotony at school. It wasn't that Joanne didn't like school – she _loved_ school! One didn't get a perfect GPA by not liking school – but it was downright torturous when you had no friends. Which Joanne didn't. Some had tried when she'd first arrived, but rumors quickly spread about what she was. Not the witch thing, no, but a public school orphan. Apparently, transferring to the fancy private school from public made you a social leper, even when you were still in grade school. Rumors of her mother's insanity didn't help matters either, if Joanne was totally honest. It didn't matter that she'd been the smartest person in her grade since day one. It didn't matter that she was very likely the smartest person in the school. It didn't matter that she'd worked her way to be captain of the JV volleyball team as a sophomore, a title that followed when she moved up to varsity. It didn't matter that her team had been ranked number one at nationals since she took over three years ago, thank you very much. It didn't matter that the staff loved her because that just made things worse. It certainly didn't matter that she had worked four times as hard as anyone else the school to be considered as half as good. Her peers just thought they were better than her, in every way. Kids were mean and they only got worse the older they got if you were an outsider.

Joanne pulled into the parking lot at Beacon Hills High just behind the bus from her own school. Today was a scrimmage against the public school, and members of other athletics teams had been encouraged to go along as well. While the game was just a scrimmage, the school Headmaster and lacrosse coach had both said that the other teams should go as a sign of solidarity. Out of uniform – probably so they didn't look like they were showing off – but they still had to go. According to the Headmaster, it was their "duty" to be supportive of their peers. Walking towards the entrance, she directed her team towards the field to get decent seats. As the other girls ran ahead, Joanne stayed back and watched as Brett Talbot had a confrontation with – surprise, surprise – Liam Dunbar. She'd heard rumors that he'd transferred to the public school after he'd been kicked out of Devenford. The freshman had to be dragged away by two other boys, one she recognized as Stiles Stilinski. He certainly looked better than when she'd last seen him at Eichen, still pale as a corpse though.

"Classy as ever, Talbot," Joanne noted sarcastically, walking passed him.

"Tagging along again, McLaughlin?" he sniped, jogging to catch up with her. Joanne glanced at him and wasn't at all surprised to see him smirking.

"I'm obligated to be here and you know it."

"Please," he scoffed. "As if you don't enjoy being here. I mean, it _is_ where you really belong." Gritting her teeth and clenching her fists, Joanne resisted the urge to hex the cocky lacrosse player.

"Bite me," she huffed, glaring at him.

Smirking, he retorted, "You aren't my type."

"Thank God for that," she snarked, walking away from him.

The sun had set quickly and the scrimmage had been going okay. Beacon Hills had scored first and their coach benched the girl that had scored. That was a strategy that didn't make any sense to Joanne whatsoever, but the game went on and, after Brett, Liam and another player had all collided, things came to a grinding halt. The vibrating in her coat pocket had been a welcome distraction from the monotony and horrendous chore of small talk. She absolutely hated mindless small talk. Pulling out her cellphone, she saw she had two texts from Grams. Unlocking it, she gasped as she clicked on the picture to enlarge it. She had to be sure that what she was seeing was real, that her eyes weren't playing tricks on her. But they weren't. It was real. It was Grams, but she looked terrified and there was a knife at her throat. Someone was in her house and holding her Grams hostage. She swiped the picture away and read the message immediately underneath it.

 _Come home. Come alone. No police._

"What…?"

Locking her phone, she sat frozen on the bleachers. Brett had been injured in the collision so the game was on hold while injuries were checked and line-ups redone accordingly. It was a mild intermission and people were on their feet, milling about and gossiping, but all she heard was white noise. The lights on the field started flickering. Joanne closed her eyes, clenching her fists. _Deep breath, one, deep breath, two,_ she told herself, _just stay calm and count to ten._ The moment she hit the golden number, Joanne opened her eyes and relaxed; she was calm, focused, and the lights were no longer flickering. Rising to her feet as her peers were distracted talking to each other, she ducked away from the crowd and darted to her car. She had to get home. Grams needed her. The moment she got in front of her house, Joanne bolted from her car. She didn't even bother to turn it off or shut the door; just slammed it into park and leapt out. Running towards her house, she quickly noted that her front door was cracked. Leaping up the stairs, she skipped the last two steps and lunged for the door. It all happened in mere moments, but the first thing Joanne saw was her Grams tied to a chair in the middle of their living room. She shouted for her to run and, a moment later, someone lunged at her with a knife.

Joanne raised a hand and shouted, " _Motus_!" Her attacker was immediately telekinetically pushed back. The person, a woman, flew back into the kitchen and slammed into the backdoor. She waited a moment with her hand in the air, poised and ready for her to attack again if she got up. But she didn't move. Good. "Are you okay?" she asked, rushing over in a panic. Reaching into her boot, she pulled out her athame and started to cut at the rope.

"I'm fine. It's a sanguinum knot." The teen froze and looked over at the attacker on the floor, stunned. She dropped the dagger on the floor; it was useless at this point. Muttering an unlinking spell, she quickly freed her grandmother and hugged her tight.

"She knows. How does she know?" she muttered, afraid and confused.

"We'll worry about that later. Let's get clear and call the police first." Cynthia was already headed for the front door, tightly holding her granddaughter's hand and pulling her towards freedom.

"The police?!" she exclaimed incredulously. Shaking her head, she planted her feet in the floor and pulled Grams to a stop. "She used a sanguinum knot! She knows we're witches! We can't just let her—!"

"We don't kill people, Joey," Cynthia scolded. The older woman froze as her gaze switched from Joanne to the kitchen. Joanne whipped around and gasped. Their attacker was gone. "Where is she?" Holding out her hand low to the ground, the discarded athame flew into her palm with a firm _motus_. "Get out of here, Joey. That's an order."

The teen stubbornly shook her head. "Not a chance."

"Joey, please," her Grams pleaded.

"I'm not leaving you!"

"Joey—!" Whatever she'd been about to say was forgotten as the attacker lunged at them with another knife in hand. A knife aimed at her granddaughter's back. "No!" Grams pulled her close and pushed her behind her, sent her stumbling into the couch. " _Osox_!" Joanne heard the distinctive sound of a bone breaking and a scream of pain. When she had finally gained her bearings, she saw the woman's one leg was broken and Grams had stabbed her low on her stomach. She smiled for a fraction of a second, thinking it was all over.

She'd been so wrong.

There wasn't any time. She'd frozen and it just happened so fast. That's what she'd tell the cops later: that it all just happened so fast and she hadn't known what to do. The woman had screamed in pain and backed off, the athame ripping itself from her body, and she swung her own knife wildly. The blade sliced across Grams' throat. Joanne stared in shock, feeling as though someone had just ripped her heart out. Her eyes welled and overflowed with tears as her grandmother collapsed to the floor. The woman cursing snapped her out of her daze and Joanne glared at her.

" _Motus_!" she shouted, waving her hand. The force behind her telekinesis had been much harder the second time around and the woman flew straight through the window in the dining room. Joanne stood there, waiting in anticipation, but nothing happened. Quickly striding to the window, she saw that the woman was gone. She certainly moved fast for a woman with a broken leg, but she was gone and that was all that mattered. With the threat gone, Joanne rushed back to her grandmother. She was gasping for breath, a horrible gargling sound as blood poured out of her mouth. "I can heal you! I can heal you! I can do this!" Keeping her hand pressed firmly against the wound, she started muttering the only spell she could think of. She could feel her magic flowing through her. She could feel something happening, the beginnings of the healing spell trying to work but it wasn't enough. Healing spells worked at different levels of speed and effectiveness, Grams had always said, but it seemed she hadn't started the spell soon enough. The wound was too deep, she'd lost too much blood, but there had to be something else. Some other spell! There just had to be! Ceasing her useless chanting, she tearfully questioned, "Its not working. Grams, what do I do? I don't know what to do. What am I supposed to do?!"

Cynthia let out a choking cough and pressed the bloody athame into Joanne's hands. Once Joanne had a hold of it, Cynthia ran a hand through the girl's hair and took in every inch of her face, committing her to what little memory she had left. She felt cold and lethargic. She was dying; she knew, even Joanne knew it but neither dared to utter the words. So Joanne cried and begged for an answer she couldn't give, and Cynthia used what little strength she had left to run her fingers through her baby's hair. All Cynthia wanted, in her last moments, was to gaze upon her granddaughter. She wanted her beautiful brown eyes to be the last thing she saw when she finally faded.

"Grams?" Cynthia's eyes had rolled back and her lids closed. "Grams, please, don't do this to me! Please, Grams!" Joanne pressed her hand harder into the wound, the blood gushing between her fingers. "Grams?!" she cried again, shaking her body to try and wake her up. But it was useless. She knew it was useless, but she didn't stop. "GRAMS!" Joanne hugged her Grams' dead body tight against her chest, her body shaking with tears. A gut-wrenching shriek escaped her, shaking the very foundation of the house.

The news the following morning told of the reputable occult professor's grizzly murder and of a startling 5.1 earthquake that rocked the surrounding area with over ten million dollars worth of damages.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Disclaimer:**_ I don't own _Teen Wolf_ or any of its characters. I only partially own Joanne since she was inspired by a name on The Deadpool, but any other OCs you happen to come across are 100% mine.

I meant to upload this yesterday but things were just too busy and hectic, so here's a belated Christmas present for y'all! Happy holiday!

* * *

 _It's so quiet here  
And I feel so cold  
This house no longer  
Feels like home_

"So Cold" – Ben Cocks

* * *

 **Chapter 2**

Joanne had been sitting on her front porch for…well, she wasn't exactly sure how long. Once she'd regained control of herself, she'd called the cops and then went outside. She'd collapsed on the steps and stayed there, staring at the bloody athame until the sound of sirens snapped her back to reality. Shoving the ceremonial dagger back into her boot, Joanne wrapped her arms around herself as the police and an EMT swarmed past her into her home. One of the EMTs crouched in front of her and tried to coax her over to the ambulance. She needed to be checked for injuries, but Joanne refused to move. She didn't even have a scratch on her, just some bruises. They were insistent but she was rooted to the step. She only moved out of the way when the forensics people had to go by with Grams' body.

The EMT had wrapped a blanket around her and rubbed her arms. It wasn't because she was cold but because, in stressful situations, the human body would be in danger of going into shock. At that point, the body's systems would shut down and the extremities would become cold. A blanket helped to prevent this. She'd read about it once. He didn't truly care, she guessed, or maybe he did. All she knew for certain was that he wanted to give her something to do other than focus on the tragedy that had just occurred. After she'd given her statement, the officer tried to convince Joanne to go with him to the station but, like she'd told the EMT, she wasn't leaving her house.

"Why don't you let me try?" Joanne looked up to see a familiar face flashing a badge at the cop in front of her. The officer nodded and left her alone with a man she hadn't seen in quite some time.

"Mr. Stilinski? What are you doing here?" she wondered.

"Your grandmother was a pillar of the community. Something like this, word spreads fast," he explained, taking a seat next to her. "She was also a good friend." The call of Cynthia Warren's murder had gone though his department and the officer working the desk at the time had remembered that Joanne had been good friends with his son and called his cell. After passing off what little information his department had to the FBI regarding the suspected murders by The Orphans and catching up with Scott and Stiles about the Deadpool, he'd rushed over to the Warren house. "Thought you could use one."

Staring blankly into space, she replied, "I don't have any of those."

"I'm sure there's someone," he argued positively. "You, Stiles and Scott used to be close."

""Used to be", being the operative words. I haven't seen either of them let alone talked to them in years. At least until Stiles showed up at Eichen and, even then, I kept it to a minimum." Since she wasn't technically part of the staff at Eichen, her contact with patients had to be kept at a minimum to avoid any legal problems but it worked out for Joanne in the end. Like she'd told the Sheriff, she hadn't seen or spoken to Stiles in years so suddenly trying to reconnect in the madhouse would've been too awkward for words. She'd just ended up avoiding him all together; it was for the best, that's what she'd told herself. "How's he doing, by the way?" she inquired offhandedly.

"Good. Much better. I forgot you worked there." He didn't go into details. She didn't need to know that her grandmother had told him she didn't think it was healthy for her to work at the asylum just to be around her mother. "What about, uh…a classmate? Anyone?" he questioned, shrugging. Joanne scoffed, bemused.

"Again, no friends and, unless you think my mom is suddenly a fit guardian or my father shows up out of the blue, then no. There's no one to call." The Sheriff looked solemnly at the grieving teen beside him.

"Joey," he began, his voice lowering to that iconic 'cop voice', "you understand, if there's no one you know that'll take you in, then they'll send you to a foster home."

"I'm not going anywhere," she stated defiantly, finally looking him in the eye. "This is my _home_." Sniffing, she wiped the tears off her face with the blanket and cleared her throat. She had to remain _some_ sense of composure. She couldn't just fall apart at every little thing. She was stronger than that; she had to be. "Thanks for coming to check on me, but I think you should leave. I'll be fine."

"Joey…" She didn't acknowledge him. Instead, she wrapped the blanket tighter around her and went back to how he'd found her: staring into space. He was losing her. He had to do something. Then it hit him, like a bolt of lightning, a brilliant idea! "You could come stay with Stiles and I!" Joanne blinked and slowly stared at him, half confused, half horrified. She started shaking her head and protest but he just grinned at her. "Yeah! His girlfriend, Malia, comes over sometimes. Well, a lot," he amended with a mild frown, trying to scrub the image of them on Stiles' bed with chains from his memory. Christ, he hoped he wouldn't have to explain that one to Joanne. "But, you know, " he continued, his tone back to being as peppy and positive as ever, "it'd be just like old times!"

"I don't think that's a good idea." The Sheriff stared at her a moment before he leaned in close.

"Well, way I see it, you got two options: stay here, be forcibly removed and sent to a foster home," he offered conspiratorially, " _or_ you come stay with me for a couple days until we solve this and figure out what to do." Joanne gulped and stared back out at the law, weighing her options.

"I wouldn't have to change schools again, would I?" He shook his head. He knew better than anyone that Cynthia had gone above and beyond to ensure Joanne had the best education possible. Hell, she'd offered to help him with Stiles' education on more than a handful of occasions but he'd been adamant that he'd pay for his sons' education on his own. Joanne nodded. "Okay then." Rising to her feet, she headed back inside the house to pack some clothes and other necessities. When she exited the house, she let the Sheriff lead her to his car and put her bag and backpack in the backseat. "Mr. Stilinski, what about…" Letting out a shuddering breath, she closed her eyes and forced herself to spit the words out. "What about the funeral?"

Squeezing her shoulder, he assured her, "I'll help you with the arrangements. Okay?" Biting back a sob, she nodded and thanked him. "Come on, let's go h…" Home. He almost said it. "Let's go," he muttered awkwardly, walking around to the driver's side.

"Mr. Stilinski?" He looked at her over the roof of his squad car. "Don't call me 'Joey' anymore. Grams…" Only Grams had called her that. No one else was allowed to, not anymore. She wanted to tell him that but couldn't manage to spit the words out. But he understood and nodded all the same.

* * *

"Stiles!" he called up the stairs. Joanne hovered by the door as the Sheriff placed her bags on the floor. She looked around the house with calculating eyes. It hadn't changed much, from what she remembered.

"Dad, hey, wh—" Stiles had been bounded down the stairs but paused at the sight of their guest. "Uhhh, heeeeey, Joey," he drawled slowly, confused. Joanne demanded he not call her that and Stiles squinted at her. "Okay," he scoffed, perplexed. He gave his dad a weird look but the older man just waved a hand at him. "What's, uh, what are you, doing h-here?" he questioned, awkwardly crossing his arms.

"Stiles, Joey – sorry, Joanne – is gonna be staying with us for awhile."

Coming down the stairs, he started to casually ask, "Cause of—?"

" _Yes_ , Stiles!" he cut off, glaring at his son. Stiles got the hint and nodded, giving him a thumb's up. No mentioning Mrs. Warren: message received loud and clear.

Joanne suddenly piped up from behind them and interjected, "Because Grams was murdered and I have nowhere else to go." The Stilinski men gave her a look and she shrugged helplessly. "It's the truth. You can say it." The guys shared another look, the Sheriff more concerned to Stiles' sufficiently weirded out look.

"Stiles, why don't you show Joanne to the guest room?"

"Actually, I was on my way out." His father stared at him and Stiles stared right back a moment before it was clear that he wasn't going anyway. "But, yeah, sure, I can do that. Absolutely! No problem. Follow me." She started to pick up her bags when the Sheriff stopped her and lightly smacked the back of his son's head. He'd be damned if his son didn't have manners, for the moment at least. Eventually, Stiles took the hint and grabbed both bags with a strained smile; they were pretty heavy, what the hell had she packed? Joanne started to follow Stiles up the stairs when he suddenly stopped and looked back at his father. "Oh, hey, Dad, any word on Garrett?"

The Sheriff shook his head. "Nothing yet. If you see him, you call me. No one else, you call _me_. _Immediately_ , you understand?" Stiles nodded but, knowing his son, the Sheriff had a feeling he wouldn't follow through with that promise.

"Whose Garrett?" Joanne asked.

Stiles nonchalantly answered, "Assassin on the lacrosse team."

"Stiles!" his father shouted, scolding him with a very familiar look.

"Right!" Stiles exclaimed, pointing at his father. Looking at Joanne, he told her, "Confidential police business. We can't talk about that. I don't even know anything about it." That was clearly a lie but she hummed and nodded anyway. "Come on, I'll show you to your room."

"Hold up." The Sheriff shook a finger, waving his son to follow him into the kitchen for privacy. Joanne sat on the steps with a sigh and waited, looking around the house as the father and son spoke in hushed whispers. Maybe she should've gone to a hotel instead? "Do you know what she is? Is she a werewolf, too? Or a banshee? Kanima, what?" Stiles looked over his shoulder. Joanne didn't seem to be able to hear what they were saying so heightened senses probably wasn't in her skillset. So not a werewolf then, at least that was something – unless she was faking and actually _could_ hear them.

"I don't know, Dad!" he answered. "I know the same as you: just that she's on the list."

As soon as the police had arrested Violet and Brett had taken off from Deaton's, he'd gone to the station to meet with Malia and Lydia. The second part of the Deadpool was cracked and there had been some familiar names on it. Kate Argent, who he wouldn't mind an assassin taking out if he was perfectly honest. Under her was Kira's mom so she'd gone to make sure she was safe. Underneath Mrs. Yukimura had been Joanne and her grandmother, both worth five hundred thousand dollars. It seemed their little pack weren't the only ones in town with a secret. Deputy Parrish was it, too, near the bottom, which was exactly where the deputy rested in Stiles' list of growing concerns.

"Stiles, someone _murdered_ Cynthia tonight," his father stressed. He was going to get that through his son's skull even if he had to drill it in. This wasn't a game. This wasn't like when Stiles would listen to the police radio and try to find a body for the hell of it. This was someone they knew, who cared about them, and she was murdered. "My guess is they did it to lure Joey into a trap to kill her, too."

"Yeah, two for one," Stiles noted. Joanne had told the police about the text she'd received. An assassin using Cynthia as bait was the only thing that made sense.

"She's on that list, which means she's a target, and they didn't get her, _ergo_ , they will try again."

"And your brilliant plan was to bring her _here_?" Stiles questioned, gesturing wildly to their home. "We don't know what she is, if she's dangerous or not, and assassins will be coming for her! Assassins will be coming to our _house_! Where we _live_! Where I would like to _keep_ living!" The Sheriff took a deep breath and placed both hands on his son's shoulders to calm him down and get him to focus.

"That girl used to play video games with you," he reminded Stiles. "She put gum in your hair and your mom had to shave your head." Stiles rolled his eyes and nodded, remembering the exact day that incident had happened. Joanne had laughed for days at the sight of his shaved head. Peachie, she'd called him, cause of how it'd felt like peach fuzz. "She used to sleepover and I'd catch you two reading comics under your covers with a flashlight. You two had _Star Wars_ marathons, for God's sake!" Stiles looked at the ground and nodded. "She is _not_ dangerous—"

"We don't know that," the teen interjected smartly. His father pointed a stern finger at him.

"She's _Joey_. And we are all she has now. We're _it_ , Stiles," he gravely stressed. "It was this or foster care, and I can't protect her there. _We_ can't protect her."

Stiles nodded slowly and admitted, "You're right. You're right, you're right." His father thanked him with a rather sarcastic tone. "I'll see what I can find out."

"That's all I ask." Stiles picked up the bags again and the pair walked back to Joanne. "Okay, I gotta go back to the station but Stiles is here and there's a deputy posted outside. If you need anything, Stiles will call me and I'll come, or you guys can come to the station. And, if you get hungry, there's leftover pizza in the fridge or you guys can order Chinese, whatever you want."

"Okay. Thanks again for this, Mr. Stilinski. I know it's inconvenient."

"It's really not," he assured her with a smile. She tried to smile back but couldn't muster up the energy. "Try and get some sleep. _Both_ of you," he added, giving his son a point look. Stiles nodded, giving him a thumb's up; it was obvious that his father didn't want him leaving the house for the night. As soon as he left, Stiles nodded for Joanne to follow him up the stairs.

"Someone else was murdered tonight?" she asked curiously. Stiles told her no, that him and Scott stopped her before she could do anything. "You and Scott still hang out?"

"Yeah. _Friends_ do that," he retorted pointedly. Joanne bit her lip and nodded, holding back on what she really wanted to say. Stiles holding a grudge about her basically dumping him and Scott once she went to private school was not her biggest concern at the moment. In the back of her mind though, she wondered if Scott hated her, too.

"I guess I deserve that." Stiles just scoffed at her, leading her down the hall towards the guest room. "You said you guys stopped "her". I thought the assassin was a guy." Stiles let out an exasperated sigh, as though explaining everything to her was an inconvenient burden, but still explained that Garrett's girlfriend, Violet, had been the attacker. Apparently, they were a team. "A couple that murders together. How romantic," she noted sarcastically.

"Yeah," he scoffed, just as sarcastic as her, "kids these days."

"And this guy, Garrett," she questioned, interest piqued, "he's missing?" Stiles told her he'd taken off in the middle of the scrimmage. "So Garrett could've been involved Grams' murder?" Stiles stopped outside the guest room and stared at Joanne, her interest in Garrett finally hitting him.

"Um…I don't know. I mean, its, its _possible_. I-I suppose," he stuttered. She nodded, her brain working a mile a minute. Garrett had a girlfriend that he worked with to kill people – or one person, at least, from what she knew. Who was to say that, while him and his little girlfriend were pulling their Bonnie and Clyde act at the high school, he wasn't working with someone else and had them attack her and Grams? "Do you want some pizza?" her old friend asked, pulling her out of her thoughts.

"I think I'd rather have a shower." It was then that she let the blanket drop from her shoulders and Stiles gasped, jaw dropping, at the sight of the blood. She was covered. Her shirt, hands, pants; everything was stained with dark blood.

"Holy shit!" he exclaimed, dropping the bags to grab her. "Are you hurt?! Didn't an EMT check you over?! You need to go to the hospital, I'll drive!" He started dragging her back towards the staircase when she pulled him to a stop.

"Its not my blood," she stated calmly. Stiles closed his mouth at the shuddering realization: Joanne was covered in her grandmother's blood. "Bathroom still in the same place?" she asked, trying to crack a little joke but her voice held no humor. He nodded mutely and she returned the gesture. "Goodnight, Stiles. Thanks."

Once inside the private sanctuary of the bathroom, Joanne slowly peeled the clothes off her body. She balled them up, wrapping them up in the blanket and chucked it in the corner. She'd thrown them or out burn them later; it was all garbage now. Letting the water run from the faucet for a minute, until it got to the temperature she wanted, Joanne stood in front of the mirror. She looked ashen and pale. Her nose and eyes were red from all her crying. Her hair was a matted mess. And then there was the blood; she was stained in blood all over her arms, hands and even up to her neck, a few spatters on her face. Grams' blood. The feel of the blood gushing through her fingers flashed in her mind. Her whole body started to shake again and she gasped, feeling her eyes well up once again.

Damn it, she was sick of crying!

Moving to the tub, she switched the stream into a shower and stepped in. She started to rub at her skin with her hands, lightly at first and then harder. Some came off but, not much. It wasn't coming off. Why wasn't it coming off? Feeling panic rise in her throat, she looked around the shower and snatched up the bar of soap. Her breaths came out in shudders as tear started to pour down her face. Joanne started to scrub furiously at her arms and hands, scrubbing all over until it hurt. The water at her feet turned pink as it swirled down the drain. Joanne kept scrubbing at her skin until there wasn't a speck of blood left. When the last of it seemed to be gone, she allowed herself to collapse under the hot stream of water. Sitting there, arms wrapped around her legs as she sobbed into her knees. She never knew Stiles was sitting out in the hall, listening to her with a deep frown. He texted Scott. They had to do something. They had to fix this. They had to make this right.


	3. Chapter 3

_**Disclaimer:**_ I don't own _Teen Wolf_ or any of its characters. I only partially own Joanne since she was inspired by a name on The Deadpool, but any other OCs you happen to come across are 100% mine.

* * *

"Cloud Atlas End Title" – Tom Tykwer, Johnny Klimek, Reinhold Heil & Gene Pritsker

* * *

 **Chapter 3**

Understandably, Joanne had been given a pass from both school and work. She was left alone at the Stilinski house while the Sheriff went to work and Stiles to class. The teen had tried to get out of it, claiming it'd be better if Joanne wasn't left alone. The teen witch had rolled her eyes and scoffed at the notion; as if Stiles would skip school to hang around his house with her. More than likely, he'd ditch her as soon as his father's squad car was out of sight. His father seemed to know that and gave his son a none-too-gentle push out the door, complete with a lecture. After a boring, listless breakfast of toast and bland coffee, Joanne tried to work on her paper but found she lacked inspiration. Every time she tried to start her draft, she remembered that Grams wouldn't be around to proof read it and give her notes. Slamming the MacBook shut, Joanne hopped of her bed in the guest room. This was madness. It was too quiet. There was none of Grams' jazz music playing in the house. Grams wasn't laughing with her colleagues over the phone, and she wasn't clacking on her keyboard as she emailed her students and updated their grades. Joanne didn't just need her grandmother; she needed her home.

She sat up at the realization. Joanne wanted to go home; who said she _couldn't_ go? Throwing on her jean jacket, Joanne jogged down the stairs and hustled out the door to her car. Getting to her house didn't take long, but the sight of the yellow police tape and the wooden board in place of the dining room window was unbearable. She didn't care if any neighbors were watching her sneak under the tape; one couldn't break into their own house, even if it was technically a crime scene. Joanne hadn't really thought about what she was going to do once she was inside. She'd been so focused on going home, on getting back something familiar. Walking around the eerily quiet hallway, passing through the mess in the dining room and trying to ignore the coppery scent of blood. Across from the dining room was the sunroom and that was where she found her salvation.

Joanne sat at the bench with a heavy sigh. She just sat there a moment, starring down at the piano. Taking a deep breath, she carefully lifted the lid. It took her another moment to actually touch the keys and, once she did, it was just barely so. Joanne reverently ran her fingers across the ivory keys and tried not to cry. This was her mom's piano. This was Grams' piano, and her great-grandmothers. This piano was over sixty years old and had so many memories attached to it. Grams told her that her daddy had bought it as a present for her mama back in the 1950s. The Civil Rights movement had steamed ahead and Jim Crow was, while not at an end in most people's minds, at least legally over. Their daughter and her friends could gain an education at a better facility with the white kids. They could ride in any seat they wanted on the bus, even buy a car from the best dealer without being turned away. They could eat at any restaurant they wanted, drink from any water fountain, even buy a house in the nice white neighborhood if they wanted! And her great-grandfather could go into the shop he'd been thrown from two years previously and buy the piano his wife wanted with the money he'd scrimped and saved for her birthday.

This piano carried all the blood, sweat, tears, and joy of her family and now it was Joanne's. It was just hers. There would be no more weekend lessons with Grams to make sure her skill stayed in tip-top shape. There would be no more singing carols at Christmas together. There would be no impromptu jazz concerts. There would be no more music in this house, not without Grams. Joanne's mentor and musical partner, her best friend, was gone and nothing was going to change that. Knowing she was alone and saying it was one thing, but for the reality to actually hit her, in her home, that was so deathly quiet was another. She was alone. No father, no mother, no siblings or cousins or other relatives, and now Grams was gone. She was completely alone. Joanne's eyes welled up and she started to hyperventilate at the realization. She _knew_ she was alone! Logically, she'd known that but it was as if the notion had just run her over like a freight train.

" _The great thing about music, Joey, is that, when it hits you – when it_ really _hits you, deep down in your soul – you feel no pain,"_ she heard Grams whisper in the back of her mind.

"No pain…" Joanne whispered. Taking a deep breath, she wiped her eyes clean and set her fingers on the keys.

She started slowly, in C major, and progressed from there. One note at a time, Joanne played the familiar song to will her pain away. Maybe it would work, maybe it wouldn't, but she could pretend at least for a little while. She could hear the strings so clearly in her mind. She sat on the bench, eyes closed, bobbing her head, playing along to the imaginary beat. The strings were in full swing now, sweeping and twirling like a ballerina twirling across a stage. Up and down they went, soft and quiet to full and boisterous. The winds came in next, swaying the ballerina in her mind. The flutes were so sweet sounding, so pure. The strings picked up their pace. Eventually, Joanne began to hum the melody, never loosing track of her place on the keys.

"That's nice." The voice didn't startle her. Joanne had practice of keeping distractions out and her focus solely on the music when she played for too many years to be startled so easily. Perhaps it should have worried her that there was some boy in her house with her but she figured, if he was the guy that attacked that lacrosse player, he wouldn't waste time talking to her. "Did you write it?"

"No. It's from _Cloud Atlas_ ," she answered easily, her fingers moving quickly across the keys for the crescendo.

"Never heard of it." She felt the bench move as the person sat next to her, but she didn't let that disrupt her playing. In her mind, she was still in the middle of playing with a grand symphony.

"It's a movie about the continuity of the soul," Joanne murmured. The music was beginning to swell inside her head, the horns and drums loudest of all; it was almost over. "Its about how the actions of individual lives impact one another throughout time. It really focuses on one soul and how it takes different shapes over hundreds of years and, no matter what form that soul takes – friend, lover, stranger – they're always, somehow, reunited with other souls they've touched, with their mate."

"Sounds cool," he speculated. Surprisingly enough, his tone actually confirmed that he was being honest in his declaration. He wasn't just being nice for the sake of being nice. That was different.

"It was…thought provoking." The music quieted in her mind and Joanne played out the last note. She felt calmer, but not better. The pain was still a dull ache that thrummed across her entire body. Opening her eyes, she looked at the person to her right and was surprised to see Scott McCall. "Hi…"

"Hi." Smiling sadly at her, he wondered, "You know you're not supposed to be here, right?" Joanne looked back down at the keys with a shrug and played some random notes.

"Its my house," she retorted stubbornly. "I can come and go as I please." Scott wanted to argue that she couldn't when her house was the scene of a murder that was still under investigation, but thought better of it.

"People are looking for you," he chided.

"I doubt that," Joanne scoffed. Scott informed her that the Sheriff had stopped by the house on his break to check in on her and, when saw she was gone and her phone had been left behind, he'd started a search party. "Search party, right," she muttered sarcastically. "The only person that cares about me is dead." For anyone else, that would've sounded like she was being dramatic for the sake of being dramatic, solely for the attention. But the sad fact was, for Joanne, it was true. At least, to her it was.

"What about your mom?" he wondered curiously. Chuckling mirthlessly, Joanne shook her head and gave her old friend a pointed look.

"Fine. The only person who cares about me and is actually able to _do_ something is dead," she amended with a bitter smile.

"That's not true!" Scott argued. Joanne quirked a brow, as if daring him to continue. "The Sheriff is looking for you. Stiles," he listed easily. "his girlfriend, Malia, Lydia—"

"Lydia Martin?" she questioned, face screwed up skeptically.

"Yeah," Scott insisted, even as she rolled her eyes. "Mom promised to keep an eye out for you at the hospital." Joanne didn't react, knowing that hospitals were always the first informed to look for people on their grounds in missing person cases. "And me," he assured her. "I've been looking for you." Joanne stared at him a moment, perplexed and refusing to believe the boy she'd once been friends with actually cared if she disappeared.

"Mr. Stilinski is looking because my grandmother was murdered and I'm under his protective custody; he's obligated to keep an eye on me," Joanne stated certainly. Scott began to argue but she effectively cut him off, continuing her dissection of his previous assertion. "Stiles is looking because his dad told him to and his girlfriend, who I've never met, would only help because Stiles dragged her along." Scott conceded with a slight nod; he couldn't exactly say she was wrong. "No clue why Lydia Martin cares, but I'm sure it has nothing to do with me personally since she's never deemed me worthy of her time, even when we were six. Sheriff probably asked your mom for help and she, in turn, asked you. Go ahead," she dared, "tell me I'm wrong."

"You're wrong," he immediately countered. Joanne titled her head, pinning him with an all too familiar look. He remembered Grams giving him that same look when he was little a time or two. "I mean, yeah," he stuttered reluctantly, "Sheriff asked us to look for you." Joanne smirked and nodded, turning her attention back to the piano. She'd been right: they hadn't been looking for her because they cared, but because they'd been told to. "But we were already looking for you anyway!" he insisted emphatically.

"Why?" Joanne wondered. Staring him dead in his eyes, she reminded him, "We aren't friends, Scott. We haven't been for a long time." He'd be lying if he said that didn't hurt him. She wasn't entirely wrong, but Joanne was back in his life now – whether she liked it or not – and Scott was bound and determined to keep her around.

"Its not safe for you to be alone right now."

"Because Grams' killer is after me, too, I know." Scott tried to protest but she shook her head. "Sheriff tries to act like that's not his concern, but I'm not dumb. Killer sent me a text to lure me back here. I was her target as much as Grams was."

"If you know that there's a killer after you, why'd you take off alone without your cellphone? Isn't that…stupid?" She had her cellphone, it was just off but that was beside the point.

"Why do you even care?" she demanded, incensed. She turned from her beloved piano to glare furiously at him. "We haven't spoken in _years_ , so why the sudden outpouring of concern? Huh? Why are you being so nice to me? _Why_ , Scott?!"

"Because you need a friend," he answered easily. He was so calm and sure in his response, not an ounce of judgment or pity in his tone or expression. Scott shrugged sheepishly as he added, "And I've missed you."

"You don't even _know_ me," she countered. The person he remembered and who she actually was were two totally different animals. "You remember a girl who loved to build mud-castles, caught lightning bugs, and pretended to be an astronaut dinosaur princess."

"Princess Yep-Yep, Captain of the USS Treestar," Scott recalled with a laugh. Joanne pursed her lips and nodded, trying not to laugh in embarrassment at the character she'd created forever ago. "I thought USS was just for boats?"

Cringing and chuckling, Joanne confirmed, "It is." Scott laughed.

"What kind of dinosaur were you again?"

"Saurolophus," she recalled with easy embarrassment. Ducky from _The Land Before Time_ had always been her favorite and Yep-Yep had been modeled from her. A little amazed, she said, "I can't believe you remember that."

"Why wouldn't I? I was Prince Spike, your First Officer." Joanne sucked in her lips, trying not to laugh as her shoulders shook. But Scott started chuckling and she couldn't stop herself from echoing the sound. "I liked that girl. She was cool and fun," he replied, nudging her shoulder with his own. Smiling easily, he added, "And I'd liked to get to know this one, too. I bet she's just as cool."

"I'm really not," Joanne told him, shaking her head with a bitter smile. "I'm a freak," she whispered forlornly to herself.

Grams would've promptly scolded her for saying that word – "freak" was not a word she allowed in her house, especially in reference to their powers – but Grams was gone and she wasn't coming back. Joanne was the orphan girl who had to live with her grandmother because her mother was crazy and her dad didn't want her. She was the girl who worked at the local loony bin just to be close to said crazy mother. She was the genius all the teachers adored so the student body automatically hated. She was the girl who would probably have her pick of colleges, but didn't a clue what she wanted to do with her life. She was the girl who broke into her murder house to play piano. She was a witch, who probably got her grandmother killed because she wanted to fight when she should've run.

"We're all a little freaky," Scott assured her. "Byproduct of living in Beacon Hills. I mean, look at Stiles," he joked, hoping to make her smile and it worked. Not only did she smile, she cracked a little laugh and nodded. "You aren't alone, Jo," Scott pledged, taking her hand in his and squeezing it reassuringly. "I promise, you aren't. We're all here for you." Joanne nodded, wanting more than anything to believe him. "Come on, I'll call the Sheriff." The teens rose to their feet and walked out of the house, Joanne shutting the door and locking it out of habit.

"He's gonna be pissed," she noted blandly as she trudged over to her car.

Scott just nodded and replied, "Probably." Joanne watched as he walked to a dirt bike and picked up the helmet that was hanging from one of the handles.

"You ride that thing?" she questioned incredulously. Scott grinned and nodded, looking quite proud. Joanne had to admit, she was impressed! She never, in a million years, thought that Scott McCall would have let alone actually _drive_ a motorbike. "Cool."

"Not bad for a First Officer," he replied with an easy grin. Joanne rolled her eyes at him, trying not to smile. What an absolute dork.

* * *

The next few days had been a cycle of one hellishly exhausting experience after another. First, she'd been forced to endure a lecture from the Sheriff, with plenty of snarky input from Stiles, which led her promising to have her phone on her at all times. On and fully charged had been a very pointed stipulation. It also meant having to deal with a deputy being posted outside the house at all times, which meant he'd follow her if she tried to take off again. Joanne was effectively on house arrest with a semi-permanent babysitter. Not ideal, but it was what it was. Then she'd set up a protective barrier around the Stilinski house when the other occupants were gone for the day. Maybe the barrier wouldn't be necessary, but she wasn't taking any chances.

The funeral itself had been the worst part. It had been short, simple, and unbearably agonizing all at once. Trying to prepare for it had been a burden she'd imagined undertaking when she was much older and prepared, Grams having died of old age or maybe some disease at a hospital or care facility, not from having her throat slit and choking on her own blood in their living room. Grams, it seemed, had been prepared and her wishes were detailed in her contract with the funeral home and her Last Will. Joanne honestly wasn't sure what she would have done if the Sheriff hadn't been holding her hand every step of the way. There'd been a viewing but Joanne had hid in the funeral home's break room to avoid people, letting the Sheriff take the lead in greeting visitors. So many people had come, mostly Grams' colleagues and even some of her students, if some of the more interesting emails written in the register book were any indication.

She'd only come out of hiding when at the end of the viewing, when people stepped forward to speak. Joanne had stayed towards the back, listening to people talk and their prayers. While one of her colleagues was speaking, she noticed the tall, olive skinned man walk in. Like her, the stranger made no effort to join the others. Instead, he hung back and leaned against the door-jam so Joanne took the opportunity to take him in. She didn't recognize him. Granted, she didn't recognize a lot of the people in attendance but this man didn't look like any friend of Grams'. Black hair streaked with some gray, dark jean jacket with colorful tribal patterns etched into the shoulders, a dark plaid shirt, and tight jeans with a rather prominent oval belt buckle. It had a buffalo etched into it and he wore cowboy boots, something not seen in Beacon Hills let alone in their part of California. He even had an honest to God cowboy hat that he respectfully removed once he entered the room. As if he felt her eyes on him, he looked over and held her gaze. He didn't blink, he didn't falter; he just stared right back at her. Joanne felt herself warm, partially in embarrassment of being caught but also from something else. Something she couldn't quite pinpoint. Joanne knew she didn't know him, but something inside told her she did. The stranger nodded his head to her and, for some inexplicable reason, she nodded back and whatever moment they had passed as his gaze turned to the other mourners. Unable to take listening to the people and her confusion about the man, Joanne bolted from the room to cry in the private room in peace.

At the actual funeral, it had been expected she'd give a eulogy but she found herself frozen in her pew, barely able to breathe let alone speak. The Sheriff and Stiles sat on either side of her, a protective wall. The elder held her hand the whole time, until time came for her to speak. He knew she couldn't do it and didn't try to press, so he spoke for her. A few people had come up to her, shaken her hand and offered their condolences, wishing her well, and telling her Grams dying was such a tragic loss. As if she didn't know that. The one person who didn't step up to wish her well was that cowboy. He was there, lingering in her periphery. As the last line of mourners said their final farewells, Melissa McCall stopped to hug Joanne and she couldn't stop herself from clinging to the woman who'd always been like a mother to her until the distance life created separated them. Scott had been right behind her and, awkward as it was, he hugged her, too.

"We're going to find who did this," Scott whispered quietly. "You're gonna be safe, Jo. I promise." She didn't know what to say so she just tucked herself into his shoulder and hugged him tighter, trying like hell not to cry and failing miserably. When it was her turn – as Grams' only living relative, she went last so she could be alone with her before the funeral home packed her up for the cemetery – Joanne still couldn't find her voice. All the courage she could muster allowed her to lean over and kiss Grams' forehead before hightailing it to the Sheriff's car for the procession.

She just wanted it to be over.


	4. Chapter 4

_**Disclaimer:**_ I don't own _Teen Wolf_ or any of its characters. I only partially own Joanne since she was inspired by a name on The Deadpool, but any other OCs you happen to come across are 100% mine.

* * *

 _My skin starts to crawl  
I'm gon' tear down these walls if I don't get out  
I've lost heaven to hell  
And I know very well I'm gon' get it back_

"Waiting Game" – Parson James

* * *

 **Chapter 4**

The following morning, Joanne had to go to a law office for the reading of Grams' Will and it had been pretty straightforward. Everything she owned went to Joanne, with the exception of some money that went towards her funeral, donated to the university, and set aside for her mother's medical bills at Eichen. There had also been the matter of her guardian. The legal age of maturity in California was eighteen, still two years off for Joanne. Grams had not named a guardian for her though, a surprising development given the woman's meticulous attention to detail regarding everything else. The Sheriff had reiterated that Joanne was under his protective custody until the investigation was closed and her ultimate protection ensured. Until such time that her safety was not a concern, he was her guardian and, after then, well, they'd just work something out.

The "best" part of the entire process had to of been when she'd stopped by her house to get some more clothes. Not only did she spot that strange cowboy, leaning against a tree down the street with his gaze on her, she'd had to deal with a realtor trying to buy the house from her. This led to her screaming at the insensitive woman and Deputy Parrish – Joanne's assigned babysitter since the incident of sneaking into her house – threatening to arrest for harassment and trespassing on private property if she didn't leave immediately. That had actually been a little fun, if she was honest. What kind of asshole rolled up to a house, that was still part of an ongoing murder investigation, and asked to "take it off your hands" to sell? She'd kicked up a little wind to push the lady off the lawn and scare her a little bit. When Joanne turned to glare at the strange man – maybe get Parrish to scare him off, too – she was stunned to find he was gone.

After everything was said and done, Joanne had no choice but to return to school. It was a reprieve she was actually looking forward to. Throwing herself into her education would provide a good distraction. Of course, it wouldn't be so easy since she was still living with the Sheriff. The fact that there'd been a deputy posted outside his home to guard her while she was alone was one thing, but her grand return into society would prove difficult with a babysitter. Until whoever murdered Grams was caught, Joanne was under the unequivocal protective custody of the Sheriff and he took that duty very seriously. They'd been arguing about the very subject they were currently arguing over for the last two days. While Joanne was insistent that she would no longer be in-need of her armed guard since she'd be amongst the sprawling public once again, the Sheriff seemed bound and determined to have her all but handcuffed to her appointed guard at all times.

"Why exactly do I need a police escort to school?" she wondered as she glared at Deputy Parrish, who was patiently waiting in his squad car. The Sheriff was standing beside her on his front porch, giving his deputy a friendly wave and smile. He was trying to reason with Joanne, matching her arms crossed position.

"Until we catch Cynthia's killer," he reminded her, "your safety is my highest priority. Ergo: police escort." Joanne wanted to tell him that she thought a 24/7 police escort was wholly unnecessary, overkill even, but she knew it was pointless.

"You think whoever murdered Grams is gonna come after me?" she guessed, trying to sound nonchalant. She already knew that – she'd told Scott as much already – but she didn't need the Sheriff to know that she was more than aware of the target on her back.

"I don't know," he answered with an exaggerated shrug, lying through his teeth. "Hence the escort." Joanne hummed and nodded skeptically.

" _Sooo_ is this deputy supposed to just sit around the whole time I'm in school, then drive me back here after?" she questioned sassily. "You can afford to be down a deputy for a solid eight hours today?" Okay, he saw the problem with that.

"Well…no," he hedged and, for a moment, Joanne looked triumphant. "But you call me and he'll come pick you up." Joanne pursed her lips and nodded, struggling to not roll her eyes.

"This really isn't necessary. Besides, I have practice after school." No she didn't; volleyball didn't start till late February and it was still early January, but he didn't need to know that. "I likely wouldn't even be calling until well after seven or eight o'clock." She fake winced and told him he probably wouldn't want an officer hanging around a prep school till eight o'clock at night, especially not with multiple murderers running around free. "If someone following me will make you feel better, then do it but I'm taking my car." The Sheriff stared at her a moment before smiling.

"You drive a hard bargain." Joanne just smirked and shrugged.

"Learned from the best."

"Cynthia always was a tough negotiator," he agreed. The pair shared a fond smile at Grams' memory. "Okay. You win." Joanne grinned triumphantly, bouncing a little excitedly, and he couldn't help but grin back at her. That was probably the first real smile he'd seen from her in days. "Parrish will follow you and check the school before he reports for duty at the station. Tonight, when you're done with practice, you'll call him or me and we'll escort you back the house. Deal?" he bargained, offering her his hand.

Joanne took it and shook firmly. "Deal. I'll see you later tonight. Have a good day."

"You, too, Joey." He winced and quickly corrected, "Joanne."

* * *

Parrish had made Joanne walk with him while he checked the perimeter of the school. He apologized for it, but it wasn't as if he could leave her in her car to wait alone. Wouldn't exactly be doing his job if something happened while he was checking things and she was unattended, he explained. It was just easier to make sure the school was fine if she was with him so he could keep an eye on her. She understood. She was completely embarrassed, since there was no way to do but under the gossiping gaze of her peers, but she understood. Once he was certain things were okay, he reminded her of the plan and took off back to the station. Finally alone, Joanne took a breath and braced herself for her first day back. It had been a weird morning already without her normal routine, but she was hoping school would at least be as uneventful and monotonous as it had always been.

"Joanne!" a voice called out. Or the world would turn upside and things would be completely different, she supposed that was another option. Stopping in the hallway, Joanne turned to see a girl from her calculus class rushing up to her. "Joanne, hey!" she greeted with a big smile.

"Hey," she drawled, perplexed. She couldn't remember the girl's name for the life of her, which Grams would've said was rude, but this girl had never spoken to her. Not even to ask for a pencil or paper in class. "What's up?" she asked hesitantly, glancing around her. People were staring. _Fantastic_ , she thought sarcastically.

"I just wanted to say I am _so_ sorry about your grandmother." Oh. No. She. Didn't. Joanne's face of confusion quickly morphed into one of stony silence. "She was just such an amazing person—"

"Shut up," Joanne hissed.

The girl paused, stunned, and said, "Excuse me?"

"I said, " _shut up_ "," Joanne repeated, much more forcefully. "You didn't know her." A few people in the hall had stopped to watch, but Joanne didn't notice them. Her entire focus was on the insolent girl in front of her. "You didn't _know_ her," she repeated forcefully. "You didn't know that she took two lumps of sugar with her tea. You didn't know she always wanted a garden full of sunflowers. You didn't know she went to Woodstock and made out with Janis Joplin. You didn't know that she always dreamed about exploring the pyramids. You didn't know she hated ice cream but loved froyo, which makes absolutely _no_ sense but try telling her that." Joanne took a breath, trying to calm herself but it was too late. She could feel the sting in her nose and pressure in her eyes that told she was going to start crying.

"You didn't know she would peanut butter on literally everything, but especially on fried chicken. You didn't know Christmas was her favorite holiday and she always bought the biggest tree to decorate in those hideously huge colored lights. You didn't know she hoped for snow every winter even though we both knew it'd never happen. You didn't know red was her favorite color. You didn't even know her name, so don't _fucking_ stand there," she snapped angrily, "and tell me how amazing she was to, what?" She shrugged and looked around at the little crowd her ranting had gained. "Garner fake sympathy from our peers to make yourself _feel_ more important?" The girl opened her mouth to rebuttal but Joanne stepped into her personal space and cut her off before she could even try to mount a defense. "I _know_ she was amazing because she was _my_ grandmother and you didn't know _shit_ about her. I bet you don't even know her name." The girl at least had the decency to look ashamed as she stared at the ground. "That's what I thought. So shut up and walk away before I embarrass you even further."

The girl mumbled a quick apology before darting around her, running down the hall to escape. Joanne looked around at the other students. They were staring and some were whispering. She could only imagine what they were saying. Fed up, she shouted at them and a few scattered and the rest left as the bell signaled first period would be starting soon. Joanne sighed and let her head fall back. The Headmaster had told her to take all the time she needed before returning. She'd thought being in the thick of academia would distract her or help her through everything. She'd hoped it would give her something to focus on, but she obviously hadn't been ready to go back at all. Her cell phone buzzed at that moment with a text message from the Sheriff. Apparently, the CDC had put Beacon Hills High on quarantine. Okay, that was definitely weird. He wanted to let her to know that the majority of the police, including him, were going to be there so she ought to remain at the school until he could arrange an escort home for her. A few stragglers ran past her as the second warning bell echoed throughout the school.

"Screw this," she muttered as she stalked back to the entrance. For the first time in her entire life of schooling, Joanne skipped.

Joanne didn't have a specific destination in mind when she'd driven away. She just knew she had to leave Devenford. She'd overestimated herself by returning to school, that had been abundantly clear. The only place she could think that would offer her any bit of piece was her house, but the Sheriff had made it clear that she wasn't to go back there. With Grams' killer still on the loose, returning to the scene of her murder was ill advised. That wasn't how he'd put it, of course. Last thing she wanted to do was end up getting caught there and having a tracking bracelet attached to her ankle, per the Sheriff's threat. The only other place Joanne knew she could go to for some quiet, to get some shred of peace away from all the whispers and the gossip, was to go to Grams herself. What Joanne didn't expect when she went through the cemetery toward Grams' grave was the strange cowboy standing over it. Cautiously approaching the stranger, she noted the flowers he reverently placed before the temporary marker. The ground had to settle before the joint headstone could be placed, however long that took, but at least there was something.

"Sunflowers," she noted, announcing her presence.

"They are her favorite," he stated calmly. He didn't seem surprised by her approach; he'd heard her coming. And he was right, of course: sunflowers _were_ her favorite. But how did _he_ know that? "I have found that people bring all types of flowers to funerals. Roses, lilies. As lovely as they are," he mused, eyes never leaving the marker, "I often wonder if the person actually likes them. And why would their loved ones not leave gifts of what they like if they know." The teen stared at the man, utterly perplexed.

"Maybe people just go with the roses and lilies cause its easier than thinking about what your dead friends favorite flower is," she bluntly stated. The cowboy smiled and nodded.

"I suspect you might be right."

Clearing her throat, Joanne casually accused, "I know most of Grams' friends. But I don't know you."

"Most is not all," he calmly retorted. The witch quirked a brow, waiting for him to explain or elaborate in some manner; he didn't.

"No. It's not," she drawled, jaw clicking. Taking a breath, she let her eyes run over his form; skinny but there was definitely some muscle. He could probably do some damage if he wanted to, but his posture told her he meant no harm. He was completely at ease around her while she was tense and coiled like a snake, ready to strike at any moment. But Joanne refused to be intimidated and proudly squared her shoulders. Grams raised her better than to let some stranger rattle her nerves. Unfortunately, that's exactly what he was doing. Either he was putting on a very good act, or he really didn't notice how suspicious she was of him. Or maybe he _did_ notice and just didn't care. She honestly wasn't sure which scenario was worse. "There aren't many guys walking around Beacon Hills wearing Stetsons." Absently, she noticed he wasn't wearing his and asked where it was. In his truck, he answered, out of respect for the dead. His answers were short but, from what she could tell, they were honest. He was forthcoming, friendly even, and it was throwing her off. _No one_ was this honest, not without some sort of agenda. What was his game? "You stand out," she stated tersely.

The man smiled again, chuckling under his breath. Amused, he replied, "So I have been told."

"Look," Joanne snapped, having had enough of his relaxed yet evasive attitude, "it's obvious you aren't from around here and I would've remembered Grams having a _cowboy_ for a friend, so who are you? Where'd you come from? Why were you at my house? Were you spying on me?"

"I am not a cowboy," he answered with an exhausted roll of his eyes, indicating he'd been hearing that a lot recently. Joanne clenched her fists and grit her teeth in frustration. Seriously? _That's_ what he was choosing to focus on? "And I am from Wyoming."

"Wyoming?" she echoed, gaping at him. "That's a long way to travel for a funeral."

"It is not so far as you might think. No distance is too far when it comes to good people," he answered with a kind smile. Unsure what to do or how to respond, Joanne crossed her arms and focused on the marker. It was a large slab since Grams shared the space with her late husband, who Joanne had never been fortunate enough to meet. She remembered there being two doves holding an olive branch etched at the top of the actual headstone, but this slab had no such adornment. Instead, it was simply engraved with their names and dates; for Grams it read, _Cynthia Adele Warren March 10, 1943 – January 5, 2012 Beloved Wife Mother & Caregiver_. Grams would've been sixty-nine in a few more weeks, Joanne thought listlessly. "The people here are not quite what I am used to," the stranger stated lowly.

Joanne scoffed, "You mean Wyoming doesn't have racists and assholes?"

"Oh, it does!" he laughed. "But there are plenty of good people to balance out the bad."

"Same thing here, I guess. Not all of them are awful, but the majority?" She let the question hang there but she saw him nod understandingly in her periphery. He simply replied that that was unfortunately for such a beautiful town. "Uh-huh," she toned sarcastically. "And you were spying on me because _why_ exactly?" The man smiled at her and shook his head, amused.

"I was not spying. I was checking on you," he admitted.

"" _Checking_ " on me?" the irate teen snapped. "More like _stalking_ me. I don't _know_ you!"

"No, you do not _remember_ me. There is a difference." Joanne stared at him, genuinely at a loss for words. What the hell did _that_ mean, she didn't remember him? She was pretty sure she'd remember knowing a damn cowboy! "For that, I cannot blame you since the fault lies with me. The last time I saw you, you were two and trying to run before you could walk," he explained, his tone full of affection. Looking her over, that same affection shown in his gaze, he smiled and said, "You have grown quite a bit since then."

"You…I…I don't understand…" she gasped, feeling panic flood her body. "Who are you? How'd you know Grams? How'd you know she loved sunflowers?" _How do you know me_ , she desperately wanted to ask but couldn't find the stomach to utter. The man nodded slowly, a frown forming on his tan, weathered face.

"Your grandmother and I knew each other many years ago," he answered honestly, "but your mother and I were better acquainted. Your father introduced us actually." Joanne felt herself flush, panic swelling in the back of her throat. Her father. This stranger knew her mother, her grandmother _and_ her father.

"You know him?" He nodded and smiled at her, as if he hadn't just dropped a huge atomic bomb all over her life. "That's funny." It actually wasn't. In reality, it was nothing short of horrifying. "Cause he took off before I was born, and Mom and Grams never mentioned knowing a _cowboy_ from Wyoming so _forgive me_ if I'm not inclined to believe you," she snapped scathingly.

"I have already told you: I am not a "cowboy"," he replied. Again with only focusing on the non-relevant portion of what she'd said! "I am Cheyenne."

"" _Cheyenne_ "?" Joanne echoed incredulously. "Your name's _Cheyenne_?" It was kind of feminine. Not that she was judging! Thought it definitely wasn't what she was expecting.

With a heavy sigh, he retorted, "Cheyenne is not my _name_. It is who I _am_ , in my _blood_. The Cheyenne tribe." Joanne stared at him.

"You're an Indian," she bluntly replied.

Rolling his eyes, he dryly answered, "Yes."

"So definitely _not_ a cowboy," Joanne muttered under her breath.

"No," he drawled sarcastically. Trying to get back on track, he told her, "And it does not surprise me that Cynthia would not mention me. We were not what you would call friends. But I respected her a great deal." _Yeah, you and everyone else in town_ , Joanne wanted to snipe. "She was a good woman. I was saddened to hear of her passing." How he'd heard about it all the way in Wyoming was beyond her. Hesitantly, he broached the subject of Grams' death. "I have heard that you were with her when she died. Did she suffer?"

Joanne stared at the marker solemnly before answering, "Yes."

She wanted to lie and say Grams hadn't suffered at all. Isn't that what most people did? Lie about someone's suffering at the end of their life to make people feel better? That's what Joanne thought people did at least. It all seemed so sterile and sanitary, the way people acted when someone died. Everyone had treated her with kid gloves, everyone except Scott. He'd just been there. He didn't judge her, or ask her if she needed anything, or check on her every five minutes, or try to hide her from the public when she felt like she was going to break down. To be fair, she hid her break downs all on her own but Scott had let her cry, and rant, and get mad and just let her be in her grief without trying to force some fake platitudes down her throat. He was just there, and that had been enough. It had been everything. And this stranger, he was doing the same thing. Joanne didn't understand it. It didn't make sense, but nothing had since that night.

"Cynthia did not deserve what happened to her," he murmured solemnly. The witch chuckled mirthlessly, shaking her head.

"You mean getting stabbed and choking on her own blood?" Joanne asked bitterly. "You're right. She didn't." He sighed heavily, reaching and placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. Joanne tensed, ready to strike back and defend herself if she needed to but he didn't do anything. He just gently squeezed and rubbed her arm, comfortingly.

"And you do not deserve this pain, Jo."

"Okay, enough pleasantries," she snapped irritably, pushing his hand off of her. The teen was at her wits end and him calling her "Jo" as if he knew her on top of all his talk about her family was the _last_ straw. Who the hell did this guy think he was? What gave him the right?! "Who the hell are you?" The man finally looked at her, his dark eyes meeting hers.

"My name is George Tall Grass," he answered with an easy smile. "I am your godfather."

 _ **A/N:**_ Whaaaaaaaat?!


End file.
